Unbecoming
by Winterrrrr
Summary: Fubuki loves Gouenji; but Toramaru made the first move, and now Gouenji is dating the younger striker. Fubuki is hurting and sad and jealous. It's unbecoming of him. Goufubu, mentioned Tobitaka x Toramaru, Gouenji x Toramaru. Angst. Self-harm and character death.


**Disclaimer: I don't own Inazuma Eleven or any of its characters.**

**Warnings: Self-harm, self-mutilation, character death. Angst. Suggestive material.**

**A/N: Goufubu yet again. Beware very angsty Fubuki. Also beware angsty author who likes making characters suffer. Please turn back if you aren't comfortable.**

It is unbecoming of him.

Fubuki was not by nature a bitter person.

Yet, here he is, standing behind a nearby building, watching Gouenji and Toramaru talk standing in the middle of the little town square, bitterness swirling in his stomach, rising to this throat.

It shouldn't have been a problem. What, after all, is wrong with friends chatting? Fubuki chats with Someoka too. Someoka chats with Endou too. Fubuki cannot stand Toramaru chatting with Gouenji. He cannot stand Toramaru and Gouenji being so friendly and causal with each other. He cannot stand the way Gouenji listens closely and meets the younger striker's eyes.

The jealously tugs at him again; Fubuki grits his teeth and puts up with it, because he felt rightfully jealous. Gouenji… he and Gouenji used to be close.

Fubuki could recall a few months ago when they were still battling Aliea Academy. Gouenji had rejoined the Inazuma Caravan after their final match against Desarm and his team in Okinawa. The flame striker intrigued him. He wanted to know Gouenji. No, not just know, but to truly _know_. He was sure Gouenji felt the same, too. They, without agreement, had sat with each other on the Caravan on their way back to Tokyo. They didn't talk much, but rather spent the long hours staring at each other, trying to read the other's mind, to read his emotions.

Gouenji made such an effort to understand him, Fubuki laughs sourly in his mind. He had cared. He wrote him letters and notes that Fubuki couldn't help but reply. He turned Fubuki from his misconceptions and made him realize the importance of his comrades. He turned Fubuki from self-harm and suicide. They had been so close. They had been such good friends. So close that even Endou made comments about them. All that Gouenji waved aside and graced him with a smile that said, _I don't care about what they say. I only care about us._

Ever since the FFI… Ever since Toramaru joined the team and hogged the flame striker's attention… Ever since they discovered the elementary school student's hidden talents in soccer… Ever since Toramaru made Gouenji start practicing their combination hissatsu together… Gouenji's attentions, originally only fully for Endou, Kidou, Fubuki himself, was diverted almost completely to the young soccer player.

Every time… every time Gouenji and Fubuki tried to talk properly, Toramaru intervened, with almost the same excuse every time,

"Gouenji-san! Let's practice together today!"

"Gouenji-san! I'm not sure about a new move, can you help me?"

"Gouenji-san! Let's go for a walk!"  
"Sorry to interrupt, but Gouenji-san, can you come with me for a minute?"

Every time… every time Gouenji would smile apologetically and say, "Sorry, Fubuki. I'll get to you later."

Later was never. He never got back to Fubuki.

Every time left the situation awkward and abrupt, and Fubuki disappointed and slightly jealous. He wanted to spend time with Gouenji too. Toramaru was not Gouenji's only friend.

Now, Fubuki is not merely slightly jealous. He is very, very jealous as Toramaru becomes glued to Gouenji's side and refuses to leave no further than a few meters. Fubuki watches as Toramaru's face turns red and he stutters something to Gouenji, whose eyes widen in surprise. Fubuki knows Gouenji long enough to read him. He watches as Gouenji, although shocked, gives Toramaru a smile, and says something.

What happened next had Fubuki running away from the scene.

Toramaru had reached up and kissed the flame striker Fubuki has fallen in love with.

OoOoOoOoO

Later that night, back in the lodge, Fubuki pokes at his dinner, his mind strangely blank and empty.

It is unbecoming of him.

"Is something wrong, Fubuki-kun?" Fuyuka stands at his table, looking worried. "Is it that it doesn't taste good?"

Fubuki summons all his strength to smile at the purple-haired girl. "It's nothing, Fuyuka-san." At the corner of his eye, Fubuki sees Gouenji and Toramaru at the other table, talking animatedly, both with smiles on their faces. "I'm just not hungry." Fubuki looks down at his barely-touched food. "It tastes great, up to your usual standards, but," Fubuki turns back to the girl in front of him. "I'm not into it today."

Fuyuka nods understandingly at him and returns the smile timidly. "I hope you feel better soon."

"Thanks."

Fubuki returns to poking at the curry and rice heartlessly, when Tobitaka, who happened to be sitting next to him, laid a hand on his shoulder.

"Tobitaka-kun?"

"I want to talk to you after dinner. Can we meet somewhere?"

Fubuki musters his continuously ebbing strength to throw the older teenager a casual smile. "Of course. Do you have any objections to the beach?"

OoOoOoOoO

"I guess we're on the same boat, Fubuki."

"What do you mean?" Fubuki pulls his gaze from the dark, peaceful waves lapping at the pristine sands to look at the former gangster.

Tobitaka shoots him a painfully unreadable look. "Haven't you heard? Toramaru… and Gouenji are dating."

Fubuki's heart stops.

"…what?" Fubuki knows he sounds detached and dead.

"They're dating," Tobitaka says again, softly. Is it resignation Fubuki hears in his tone?

"They're… dating."

"Yes."

They become quiet.

"You like Gouenji." Tobitaka says, again, in that quiet, defeated voice.

Fubuki connects the dots. "You like Toramaru-kun?" He asked, but it sounded more like a statement than a question.

His response was a nod.

"We _are_ in the same boat, ne, Tobitaka-kun?" Fubuki makes no more effort to smile, but instead lets the truth crash down onto him.

He must have sounded terrible, because Tobitaka lays a hand onto his shoulder. "The course of true love never runs smooth, Fubuki."

"You read Shakespeare?" Fubuki perks up slightly at the quote.

"… don't tell anyone."

"We have more in common than we think, I believe."

OoOoOoOoO

For the rest of the FFI, Fubuki successfully avoids Gouenji and Toramaru as much as he can. It is not that he doesn't want to talk to Gouenji anymore, but that the fact he is dating with Toramaru hurts.

Fubuki still has the letters and notes Gouenji used to write him. Most of them weren't really letters. They wrote a note and gave it to the other. All this time, Gouenji had been writing to Fubuki, and Fubuki diligently made his replies. It started since their voyage on the Inazuma Caravan, and distance did not stop their form of communication. They sent real, actual letters. From Hokkaido to Tokyo. And back. And forth.

Fubuki likes reading the old letters. He has arranged them according to date, kept them straight and uncrumpled with an envelope. They had been dancing with each other. Gouenji is blunt. His flirting attempts are very subtle in writing and Fubuki wishes that he had been more careful with them. He had been so oblivious. He never returned the flirting. He didn't understand them before.

It is all too late.

Gouenji had liked him, but has given up on him.

Ever since witnessing the kiss between Gouenji and Toramaru in the town square all those days ago, their letters shorten. They quickly shrink from both sides of two sheets of paper to a single side on half a sheet.

Not once did the flame striker mention dating Toramaru, yet the younger striker's name kept coming up. More and more often so.

But Fubuki has enough. He stops replying to the letters altogether.

Yet they keep coming.

They are no longer half a sheet long. They are slips of paper with one to few lines on them.

'_What's wrong, Fubuki?'_

'_Why are you ignoring me?'_

'_You know I would be happy to hear you out, Fubuki.'_

'_Is it something I did, Fubuki? Or is it something you have to figure out?'_

'_Fubuki, you're worrying me. You don't eat anymore. You haven't smiled in three days. You don't even look at me anymore."_

'_You're growing paler.'_

'_Reply to me.'_

Finally, the last note carries only a single name. '_Fubuki.'_

The letters stop.

The morning Fubuki received nothing, no paper left on his desk, no paper in his bag, no paper tucked under his utensils in his food tray; he knows Gouenji has given up on him.

He hides in his room and cries.

OoOoOoOoO

Fubuki is seventeen before he knows it, and he stands at the school gates of his new school. Raimon High School. He is here on an Art and a Sports scholarship respectively. He has sent Endou an email in advance to tell him the good news, and his former captain had replied with enthusiasm. He is… somewhat happy to know that Toramaru is still in Junior High, and wouldn't be coming to High School for another year. Fubuki doesn't hate Toramaru, but he can't face him… not when he is dating the one he loves.

He is introduced to his class, and he is surprised to find Endou, Kazemaru, Kidou, Fudou, Sakuma, and many others he knew in the same class as his. And not to mention, Gouenji.

Fubuki finds his assigned seat to be next to Gouenji, out of all the other people he could sit with. Yes, he loved the platinum blond – and he still does – but he just cannot face him. He cannot, not when he was still hurting so much. Fubuki doubts that he would ever stop hurting.

He loves the other.

It is no childish crush or passing fancy; their bonds run too deep; there is too much between them. Gouenji holds his darkest fears and worries, and Fubuki holds his. Their understanding of each other – too deep and too complicated to comprehend even by themselves – let alone by others – go beyond any other understanding Fubuki has of anyone else, and he is sure; it is the same for Gouenji as well.

Life in Raimon hasn't been easy – the coursework is of more advanced level than Hakuren, and the teachers are definitely much stricter… but Fubuki has never done better in school.

He avoids Gouenji whenever possible. He does not talk in class, nor does he pass notes like some do. Without the distraction he had in Hakuren, he pays full attention in class, excels in his studies, concentrates on soccer, creates artworks his art teachers send to competitions and exhibits.

That is, until Third Year in High School.

Toramaru graduated from Junior High and attended Raimon High. Of course he did.

Fubuki hurt again.

He hurt so much. Especially when Gouenji and Toramaru spent time together, just the two of them, on the roof, behind vending machines. They held hands and constantly smiled and looked at each other.

Fubuki also knows a make-out session when he sees one.

Hakuren, funnily, has many couples and lovers. Fubuki likes to think that the school name is a pun on the students' romantic advances and behavior. His classmates often appeared flushed, embarrassed, yet glowing when emerging from a make-out session. Fubuki knows the signs: suggestive glances; wide eyes glazed with lust; kiss-swollen lips; oh, and not to mention the hickeys. He sees these signs on Gouenji and Toramaru. All the time.

The jealously is overwhelming. Fubuki deliberately sits apart from Gouenji this year, opting, instead, for a single seat near the windows. He thinks Gouenji gave him a disappointed, saddened look, but when he sneaks a look at the flame striker, his face is turned away from him and kept perfectly neutral.

Then one morning he found a note in his shoe cubbyhole.

'_Are you done avoiding me, Fubuki?'_

The note was unsigned, but the handwriting was a dead giveaway.

Fubuki spends the day thinking of an appropriate reply.

At break, another note appears on his desk when he returned from the washroom.

'_Train with me today.'_

Fubuki tears out a sheet from his notebook and picks up a pen, ready to reply. He hesitates.

How is he going to reply? What can he say? Fubuki sighs and absently clicks his pen, watching the silver tip extend, and retract, and extend, and retract from the hole at the end of the blue plastic tube.

Fubuki finally settles with, '_Don't you have to train with your boyfriend? It wouldn't be nice to leave him out.'_

He leaves it in a certain platinum blond flame striker's unzipped pencil bag, and leans back on his chair, thoughts straying to a couple of half-finished drawings in his sketchbook.

Soon, he has his charcoal pencils out and he is engrossed in the world of shapes, lines and shading.

He watches out of the corner of his eye as Gouenji returns to the classroom five minutes before the bell rings, and obvious notice of the bit of folded up paper in his pencil bag. He senses a dark, liquid gaze flick towards his direction, and Fubuki pretends he hasn't seen anything, and focuses on his drawing.

OoOoOoOoO

Fubuki skips lunch as usual, and stays in the classroom, adding final touches to his newest sketch as most of the others headed outside to eat with their friends. Fubuki is one of the few who stay behind to study, or do introverted activities like reading and drawing, which is what Fubuki is doing now.

He wasn't noticing anything else until there is the soft rustle of paper and a note slipped onto his sketchpad, right between his hands. Fubuki looks up to the retreating figure of Gouenji Shuuya.

Waiting until the flame striker was out of the room, Fubuki picked up the note with slightly trembling fingers, quickly unfolding it to only see a single sentence. '_I want to train with you.'_

Fubuki locates his school notebook from inside his desk, and retrieves it, almost violently tearing out a page and, not bothering to find a pen, scrawls '_As you wish.'_ in large, smeared dark letters with his charcoal stick over the sheet of paper, folding it in half, then in quarters and gets out of his seat, stuffing his sketchbook into his desk along with his charcoal sticks and walks over to Gouenji's empty seat for the second time of the day.

He sticks the note into a closed notebook, leaving part of it sticking out for the platinum blond to find.

Returning to his seat and stowing his sketchpad and drawing tools away, Fubuki wonders if he cares too much; he wonders if he loves too much.

OoOoOoOoO

As usual, they're training in pairs and, true to his word, Gouenji comes up to Fubuki, soccer ball tucked under his left arm. Fubuki watches as Toramaru throws a glance their way, and gives Fubuki a dirty look akin to possessiveness, before turning away to train with Kurimatsu.

There is an awkward silence.

"Hey," Gouenji speaks first.

"Hello," Fubuki replies with pointed politeness, giving Gouenji a painfully fake smile that he knows the flame striker will not fall for.

Gouenji's dark eyes narrow for a fraction, before he let the soccer ball fall from his hold to the ground. He kicks it at Fubuki, and Fubuki counters it and passes back to him without fail. Yes, he may be in a rocky relationship with the flame striker, but he refuses to lose teamwork and cooperation.

Gouenji nods faintly at him, and passes back to him. Fubuki kicks the ball back.

They continue for a few minutes in silence, watching the black-and-white sphere fly back and forth between them in flawless synchronization.

They aren't the Crossfire Duo for nothing.

"You still haven't answered me."

Fubuki just stares, and passes back with a little too much force than needed. But Gouenji manages to catch the pass anyway and kicks back, calmly, as they have done for the past few minutes.

"Answered you?" Fubuki asked.

"What's wrong, Fubuki? Why have you been ignoring me? You know I would be happy to hear you out. Is it something I did, or something you wanted to figure out?"

Fubuki vaguely recognizes these questions from four years ago, during their time with Inazuma Japan, sent by Gouenji via note. He is about to reply, when Gouenji continues.

"Or are is it that you don't like the fact that Toramaru and I are close?"

Fubuki's heart stops, and he forces himself to meet penetrating, deep brown eyes. _Tell me_, the look said. _It's alright. You can tell me anything, Fubuki_. But he refuses to let himself be drawn into the welcoming warmth, knowing that he will only be hurt again. Gouenji is happy with Toramaru; he doesn't have to convince himself to fight for Gouenji anymore.

"No," Fubuki says instead. "Nothing is wrong. Don't worry."

"Are you sure?" comes the quiet, doubting response. The ball flies towards him and Fubuki catches it with his foot, sending it back towards the other striker with barely controlled force.

"Yes," Fubuki whispers.

They fall into an awkward silence.

"Ne, Gouenji-kun," Fubuki forces out in a friendly tone. It even hurts to say his surname. "Toramaru-kun –" Gouenji's boyfriend's name is acid on his tongue. "He's looking this way. I think he wants to train with you. Perhaps it would be better if you joined him instead?" Fubuki looks over to the navy-haired teenager. Toramaru is indeed staring towards them – almost sickeningly desperately at Gouenji. "And I think Kazemaru wants me to join him." Fubuki waves at the teal-haired midfielder, whose face lights up at his response.

Gouenji stares, frown etched deep into his face.

Fubuki kicks the ball gently so it rolls slowly to a stop at Gouenij's feet. He walks away from the platinum blond. "I'm coming, Kazemaru-kun~" he calls – again in a fake cheery voice he uses so often.

He walks over to Kazemaru, ready to start practicing with him.

But he can't help but feel that he has given up a final chance and is truly walking away from the flame striker. The flame striker he loved, and still loves with all his heart, his mind, and his soul.

_There's no turning back_, Fubuki tells himself later when they're done with training that day, as he stands beneath the changing room showers, naked, eyes closed, feeling the water cascade down his soaked hair, all over his body, pooling at his feet, where it swirls away, circling the drain. _Life is no art. I could easily erase pencil markings; I could cover up mistakes with oil paints and acrylic; I could change the shape of a clay sculpture before it's dry. Life is no art. I can't change anything that has happened. I… will just live with this pain. _Raising his arms to rinse out the shampoo, he is suddenly aware of the sting from the inside of his left wrist.

Oh.

He almost forgot. He has started his old habit again.

Staring – in some kind of sick pleasure – at the three straight, red lines across his pale wrist – throbbing beautifully under the sting of the water and shampoo, he wonders why he started again.

"I don't know," he says to himself quietly. Water runs over his face, and he knows he is crying.

"I'm sorry… Dad, Mom, Atsuya… Sorry for starting this again, but I can't – " His whisper catches and he can't say it aloud. _I can't take this anymore._

_ … Sorry, Gouenji-kun. For your letting your efforts go to waste._

It was Gouenji who had first helped him quit cutting.

OoOoOoOoO

It is summer.

And it is raining.

Fubuki is sitting out at the Riverbank, right in front of the goal, between the goalposts.

He is soaked, but he doesn't really care.

He is sitting there, crying.

Fubuki doesn't really know what he is doing out there. After all, he had been working on a new painting in his dorm room before he had felt the sudden urge to just get out of the tiny flat. He is on a terrible block.

For once, Fubuki doesn't know what to draw anymore. He wants to draw _so badly_ yet he is so stuck and so… lost. Now, sitting on the wet, muddy ground, his jeans soaked through, it wasn't helping. Not at all.

Fubuki sighed and flopped back onto the ground, staring upwards at the descending droplets showering down to earth from the heavens. Lightning flashes and illuminates the sky briefly. The soft, wispy edges of the grey clouds turn electric blue with the lightning, before thunder rolls and Fubuki shudders, because he isn't completely over loud noises.

For the infinite time of his life, Fubuki regrets not noticing Gouenji trying to flirt with him.

Fubuki has brought this on himself.

After all, what good is he? Toramaru is funny, cheerful, a highly skilled player. He is undeniably cute. Everyone loves him.

Why wouldn't Gouenji choose him over Fubuki?

Feeling sick and somewhat humored by his train of thoughts, Fubuki lies there, laughing his head off at how pathetic his life is. He is stupid. So very stupid. He can feel something leaking from his eyes, and he cannot really tell if they are tears of laughter or pain.

"Fubuki?"

He stops laughing and sobers abruptly when he looks up to see Gouenji standing over him, umbrella extended over the both of them.

Fubuki stands up and is ready to walk away, when a strong, warm grip caught him in the arm. Fubuki stands still, waiting for the latter to let go.

Gouenji doesn't, and instead moves the umbrella to shelter both of them. "What are you doing out here?"

"It doesn't concern you," Fubuki wants to snap, but his voice comes out soft and resigned.

"It does when you're out here in the pouring rain, soaked."

"Why would it?"

Gouenji doesn't reply, but tugs on his arm gently, fingers closing over his clothed wrist. "You're soaked. Come with me." Came the quiet, firm command.

Fubuki follows him down the street to the flame striker's apartment.

OoOoOoOoO

Half an hour later, after a quick shower and a change of clothes, Fubuki and Gouenji sit awkwardly in the living room, waiting for Fubuki's wet clothes to be finished washing. Gouenji had shoved them into the washer when he was in the shower, and now they are sitting there, waiting it out.

What's worse, Fubuki is in a set of Gouenji's own clothes. They are too big on him – barely hanging off his shoulders. The sleeves are too long, covering his hands completely, but Fubuki is grateful for their length; they hide his ugly, mutilated wrists from Gouenji's sharp eyes. The shorts are too loose, too. But they smell good. They smell like Gouenji – like the letters Gouenji give him.

"Are you ready to talk to me?"

Gouenji's voice startles Fubuki, but he manages not to react; he just stares. He doesn't know what to say.

"Is there something wrong?" Came the quiet question.

Ugh.

"No," Fubuki whispers. "It's nothing."

"Then care to explain why you were lying out there laughing like a madman?"

"Nothing," Fubuki says. "I was just… uninspired."

"And you thought it would be smart to lie there and catch a cold?"

Fubuki doesn't say anything. He doesn't know what to say. Why would he care now? Gouenji has no reason to.

"Do you have any idea how worried I would be?"

"You don't have to waste your efforts on me, Gouenji-kun," Fubuki bites out in a sarcastically polite voice. "It's alright; I won't meddle in your life anymore."

Gouenji's eyes flash. "Fubuki-"

"I think my clothes are done now. Thank you, Gouenji-kun. Sorry for wasting your time."

Fifteen minutes later, as Fubuki walks home alone under the downpour, he wonders why he is running from Gouenji. After all, is this not what they both want? They want to be friends again – Gouenji is being very obvious – and Fubuki is sure he is, too. But why is Fubuki running?

_Why am I walking away?_

Holding in tears of frustration, Fubuki forces himself to keep hgis face straight.

_Why am I _being difficult?

Fubuki breaks into a run, splashing his way down the streets back to the dorm building. Tears are running down his cheeks, mixing with the rain. He is soaked again, but he doesn't care. He runs on, running away from his feelings, running away from the confusion. Putting as much distance between himself and a certain platinum blond flame striker.

_Why am I running?_

_ It's unbecoming of me._

OoOoOoOoO

The next time Gouenji and Fubuki actually talk again, it is winter. Christmas Eve, in fact.

Fubuki, this time, is hiding in an alley – as much he didn't want to admit it – moping.

It is his umpteenth Christmas alone.

Sure, Endou texted a "Happy Christmas" and so did Gouenji. Fubuki doesn't want to admit it, but he is glad Gouenji did. He still can't believe he replied – Fubuki was in a more manageable mood that morning, perhaps.

But now, as he stands outside in the snow, watching families and couples mill around in the town square, he can't help but feel lonely. Like he did all those years before. But this time, it's not loneliness from lack of true friends, but from the lack of… love?

Fubuki wants sink into the snow-covered cement and cry.

And he is about to do so when a warm hand lands on his shoulder.

He turns.

Gouenji. Wrapped up tight in thick layers and a black scarf.

"Hello," Fubuki says, again, in that painfully civil voice he is struggling to maintain throughout the two simple syllables.

"You're crying," Gouenji says, and Fubuki tentatively raises a hand to his cheeks. They were cold with frozen tears.

Fubuki doesn't say anything; he really doesn't know what to say this time.

"Can we go to your place?" Gouenji asks, voice somewhat devoid of emotion, but his eyes were dark with a myriad of them – so much they were unreadable.

"As you wish," Fubuki finds himself replying. He tugs his Atsuya-free scarf tighter around his neck, right hand clutching the soft, white material, out of sheer habit.

Gouenji's eyes flicker to the movement, but he doesn't say anything.

They walk on in silence.

Fubuki leads Gouenji into his empty dorm room, and they, like a few months ago, settle on the two ends of his tiny sofa, falling, yet again, into an awkward silence.

"You're not spending Christmas with Toramaru-kun?" Fubuki tries to make conversation, and he almost laughs at his pathetic attempt.

"He's not in town," Gouenji says.

_So I'm a replacement. _

"I see," Fubuki says instead, squeezing out – after much effort – a smile.

"You're jealous."

"I…" The denial dies on his lips, and Fubuki finds himself unable to say anything else. Perhaps it is time he stopped denying. Perhaps it is time he stopped running away. He will take whatever accusation Gouenji throws at him. Because they are true. It is time he faced it all.

Gouenji's gaze is burning. "Are you?" was the quiet enquiry.

"A little," Fubuki lies.

The platinum blond scoffs. "Tell me," he asks softly. "What are you jealous of? Me being with Toramaru, or Toramaru being with me?"

"I don't know," Fubuki whispers. "Maybe both."

There is a pregnant pause.

"Fubuki…"

"What do you want?" Fubuki tries to say it in a defiant tone, but it comes out tired and resigned.

"Nothing," Gouenji murmurs. He draws in closer, until they are sitting right next to each other of the white couch. "Nothing but our friendship." He closes the distance between them and presses his lips to Fubuki's. The spark jumps between them violently, and Fubuki gasps. It feels _so good_, but… but… they are not supposed to be doing this. Gouenji is not supposed to be doing this._ He's dating, for goodness's sake! Friends don't kiss when they try to make up!_

"G-gouenji-kun…" Fubuki, despite the fact he wants to grab the other boy and kiss back, places his hands on the platinum blond's chest and pushes him off him. "You can't do this... You love Toramaru-kun, remember-"

Gouenji cuts him off with another kiss. Fubuki tries to push him away again, but Gouenji manages to situate himself on Fubuki's lap, holding his wrists above his head. Fubuki shivers at the contact; at the electric thrill that is continuously thrumming through him. He gasps again, and Gouenji deepens the kiss at that exact moment. _Yesssss,_ his emotions hiss. _Kiss back! Kiss back! He wants you! _But his brain yells back, _No! Push him away! Use those damned muscles you've acquired with all the bear killing! He's dating! Don't be the third wheel-_

Fubuki gives up and gives in.

He kisses back.

He knows Gouenji can feel him return the gesture, and that he is getting into such _deep shit_ because of this mess, but he doesn't really care at this moment; he has wanted Gouenji for four whole years, and had – has tormented himself over the loss of his crush when Toramaru made the first move instead.

They probably look like they're eating each other's faces, but Fubuki doesn't care about that either. It feels _so good_ and it is absolutely addictive.

When they finally part for air again, Fubuki is sure he is red as a tomato and his heart is thundering in his ribcage. "What are we now, Gouenji-kun?" he whispers. "Don't forget you're already dating."

Gouenji looks away briefly from him, deep brown eyes darkening almost unnoticeably. "Look, Fubuki, I'm… experimenting with Toramaru. He really likes me."

Fubuki nods once.

"I didn't want to let him down, so…" Gouenji trails off, before saying in a much softer voice. "I said yes."

"Of course you would."

"He's a great boyfriend." Gouenji says simply.

Fubuki just gives Gouenji a look; so it's true – Fubuki is no match for the younger boy.

"Fubuki…" Gouenji shifts closer to him again, pressing their lips to each other's once more. Fubuki tries to resist responding, but he gives in when firm, gently hands slid down to rest on his waist.

Sparks their way up Fubuki's spine, and he shudders, gasping soundlessly into the kiss. He clutches desperately to Gouenji's shirtfront. No… he doesn't want to let go… Gouenji's tongue is in his mouth suddenly, rubbing against his in a carnal dance.

Warm hands shifts to creep up his shirt, sliding against Fubuki's chest. "Hhhn…" was all Fubuki manages when gentle fingers brush against a nipple.

"You like that?" Gouenji's voice is suddenly, lower, huskier. Those fingers brush again over the sensitive nub, and Fubuki gasps out this time.

"I take that you do." And then suddenly, the platinum blond succeeds in slipping off Fubuki's black long-sleeved shirt. Tanned hands roam over his now exposed chest, and Fubuki gasps again, louder than before.

It's pathetic that he's so sensitive.

Fubuki can feel heat pooling southwards, bringing his need half-erect, a very much noticeable bulge in his rather tight, black jeans. _This is sick_, Fubuki tries to tell himself again. _Gouenji already has his Toramaru-kun. You shouldn't be doing this with him._

His heart tells his mind to fuck off as Gouenji suddenly flips them over and pushes Fubuki down to the sofa, planting his knees at his sides, hovering over him, leaving a hickie on his neck.

Gouenji has been holding his wrists above his head, pinning them to the sofa, when Fubuki hears the flame striker's sharp intake of breath.

"You've been doing it again." A single gentle, warm finger runs along the fresh cuts across his wrists, and Fubuki shivers from Gouenji's dark tone, and the thrill of painful pleasure raced down his arms.

"A-ah…" is only what he manages to make out. It hurt, yes, but it sends a fresh wave of desire to his nether regions.

Gouenji frowns and is about to ask more, but Fubuki raises a knee and pushes it against Gouenji's own erection, and he inwardly sighs in relief when Gouenji's attention is immediately diverted to his own need.

"I think," Gouenji says breathlessly, liquid fire burning and surging in deep brown depths of his eyes, even darker than usual with desire. Tanned cheeks are flushed, and thin lips wet and somewhat swollen. "We should take this the bedroom."

_Push him away! Push him away! _Fubuki's logic screams. _You're making him have an affair beyond his relationship with Torama-_

Logic's voice goes unheard when their lips meet again there is tongue and teeth and Gouenji scoops Fubuki up easily and heads for his bedroom.

Fubuki is lost in sensational pleasure soon after.

OoOoOoOoO

When the first flicker of consciousness creeps into Fubuki, all he can feel is relaxed bliss and a slight sting below his spine. And something running out of said place below spine. And he was completely naked under warm covers of his bed.

It's not until another minute later Fubuki connects the dots.

He let Gouenji screw him.

_He let Gouenji screw him._

_Gouenji screwed him._

_And he liked it_

"Shit." Fubuki's eyes fly open and he sits upright immediately. A spark of pain races up his spine, but he doesn't care at the moment.

He is met with an empty room.

Fubuki throws the covers back and grabs at the pile of garments on end of his bed. He tugs on his black long-sleeved shirt – not without noticing that Gouenji's clothes are already gone – and walks out to the living room area as quickly as his current condition would allow.

It is empty.

It appears that Gouenji has conveniently showed himself out.

Pain and anger churns in Fubuki's stomach. Gouenji Shuuya… the one he loved… the one he _still _loves so damn badly, has suddenly made him talk, then somehow managed to end up screwing him. Took Fubuki's virginity, popped his cherry, whatever one would call it, then left without a word. They had _made love_, or more crudely, fucked with each other, and Gouenji had left without telling Fubuki anything. He was so confused. Toramaru confessed to Gouenji. Gouenji agreed to go out with him. Four years of dating Toramaru and suddenly Gouenji shows up on Christmas Eve, kissed Fubuki out of the blue and ended up having sex with him… now, the platinum blond has left. So did Gouenji still like Toramaru? Or did he like Fubuki? Or was Fubuki only a one-time thing? What…

"… the hell…" Fubuki mutters, trying not to lose his temper. Yes, he may be alone, but Fubuki would rather not. Fubuki doesn't like being angry, doesn't like keeping grudges, but… _this… this _demanded an outburst of temper.

Then Fubuki spots a single sheet of paper lying innocently on his dining table. Sucking in a calming breath, he walks over, picks it up and reads it.

_I'm sorry, Fubuki_, it says. _I wasn't thinking properly. I shouldn't have done this with you. I'm sorry. Forgive me._

He ends up crumbling it up and throwing it to the floor, tears spilling down his cheeks in pathetic streams.

And he spends the rest of the evening holed up in his room, making new pretty slashes across his half-healed ones, watching blood drip from the cuts and slip down his wrists in beautiful crimson rivulets.

OoOoOoOoO

The next time Gouenji and Fubuki have any form of communication, they are back in school and they unexpectedly exchanged a brief glance from across the classroom in their respective seats two weeks after Christmas, during their lunch break. Gouenji's expression is one of regret and pain.

Fubuki just looks at Gouenji emotionlessly. He doesn't know what to feel anymore. He still loves Gouenji, without a doubt. But he is still sad and angry at how Gouenji left him on Christmas Eve. And watching Toramaru bound into the classroom and over to Gouenji's desk, it is simply… _maddeningly painful. _

Gritting his teeth, Fubuki determinedly looks away from the two, instead sliding his sketchbook out from inside his desk. He flips to his most recent unfinished charcoal drawing. It was in fact from a couple of weeks ago. His eyes scan the dark outlines.

_Angular facial features, spiked up hair, sharp, piercing eyes, an easy, quirked smirk._

_ Gouenji._

Choking back a sob, Fubuki slams the sketchbook shut. For the first time of his life, he realizes how realistic his drawings can be. It is as though Gouenji is staring out of the paper at him.

It hurts.

Fubuki digs his fingers into his left wrist. The cuts sting almost pleasantly under the bandages and the pristine sleeve of his uniform. It almost lessens the emotional pain he was going through now.

No… he needs more.

Fubuki rummages in his art tools pouch for his cutter, slipping it into his pocket and heading out of the classroom and to the boy's restroom.

The restroom, Fubuki has noticed before, is his sanctuary. It is quiet, and most often, he is alone inside. Fubuki walks past the sinks, walks past the urinal bowls on the walls, to the stalls at the back. He steps into one of them and closes the door behind him, locking it. He flips down the toilet seat and sits on it, slowly, mechanically, rolls up his left sleeve. He carefully tears off the tape and removes the gauze, and gazes, transfixed, at the angry red lines crisscrossed over his pale skin. A few of them has reopened, and Fubuki grabs tissue from the dispenser on his left and wipes it off. He must not make a mess, or someone would find out and he would be taken to a councilor. Again. Fubuki refuses to experience a repeat of one of his cutting incidents back in Hakuren.

Now, Fubuki takes the cutter out of his trousers pocket, extending the blade. He makes the first fresh cut across his wrist. He doesn't press the blade too hard – it would do him no good if he bleeds to death. He only wants the pain; it is relief for him. Fubuki frowns at the first cut.

It is not enough.

He makes another, also across his wrist, this one parallel to the first one, a little further up his arm. He makes another, and another.

Four cuts. Fubuki stares dazedly at the little beads of scarlet oozing out of the open cuts.

Crimson… fire… Gouenji… _Gouenji…_

The tears come again.

How many times has he cried for him?

How many times has he cut for him?

Fubuki just doesn't bother counting anymore.

He is so weak… he should have already gotten over Gouenji. It has been four years. He should have started looking for someone else… like Someoka? Kazemaru had told him the other striker liked him. Why? Why can't he just get over Gouenji like Hiroto did for Endou?

_This is so stupid._

_ I hate myself._

_ Maybe I confused Gouenji-kun too. I should have pushed him away on Christmas Eve. I should have said sorry to him. Gouenji-kun _is _dating Toramaru-kun, no matter how much I like Gouenji-kun himself. I made him confused and of course he left while I was still passed out. I should never have returned that kiss. I should never have started avoiding him. I should have… I should have… I should have…_

_ It's all my fault._

Blinking tears from his eyes, Fubuki gripped the cutter more tightly, and gave his left wrist one, two, three, four, five, six more cuts. He watches through a dazed haze, at the blood flowing from his fresh wounds, continuing to watch as the ruby drops slide along the curve of his wrist and drop to the pristine tiles beneath his feet, staining it with splatters of dark, beautiful scarlet. He knows he should wipe it up quickly, in case anyone finds out, but he doesn't bother, for the moment. He just wants to sit there and wallow in self-hatred.

Fubuki leans back against the tank of the toilet, shoulders slumping in both emotional and physical exhaustation. It is too much… Too much for him to handle – he was too weak, too tired. His head feels light and he let a gust of breath escape from his lungs with a quiet whoosh. His vision blurs badly and his eyelids grow heavier and heavier by the second. He is so dead and lifeless inside; it's unbecoming of him.

He closes his eyes. He would open them later… just a little while later.

OoOoOoOoO

"… _dammit Fubuki...Wake up… Wake up! _Fubuki!"

Fubuki drifts back to consciousness at an achingly familiar voice calling his name. He is vaguely aware of warm hands on his shoulders, shaking him frantically.

… Gouenji…?

Gouenji…

_Gouenji!_

Fubuki's eyes fly open, and the flame striker's face fills his vision.

"Dear merciful kami-sama," Gouenji breathes, and something akin to concern and relief glints in the dark brown depths of his eyes. And the sharp edge to the gaze… fear?

Fubuki says nothing but slowly sits up straight. He has fallen asleep (unconscious?) sitting slumped on the toilet seat, he recalls. After he made a few fresh cuts to his left arm. His eyes flicker automatically to the inside of his left wrist.

Fresh, open cuts greet his eyes, still bleeding slightly. He laughs hollowly at the sight.

The warm hands on his shoulders move to hold his ice-cold hands. "Fubuki."

Fubuki stops laughing abruptly and looks up, but refusing to meet Gouenji's steady gaze. "Why did you come and find me?" His eyes find the open toilet stall door, and a small coin lying abandoned on the floor. Gouenji must have turned the lock from outside with it.

"Fubuki," Gouenji says again, warm hands clutching tighter around his. "Lunch break ended twenty minutes ago."

… Crap.

"I guess I fell asleep," Fubuki mumbles, slowly getting to his feet, very much aware of the now-dull red stains of blood on the white tiles.

Gouenji's eyes flick towards the bloodstains. "What have you been doing?" he asks quietly.

"Nothing." Fubuki somewhat calmly pulls tissue from the tissue dispenser and rubs the half-dried blood from the tiles, chucking the used tissue into the toilet bowl and flushing it. He picks up his fallen cutter from behind the toilet, retracting the blade and sliding it into his pocket, replacing the gauze and tapes over his new wounds and rolls his sleeve over, covering the bandages. He steps past a stunned Gouenji and out of the stall, to the sinks near the door. He washes his hands and dries them mechanically on his school trousers. "Nothing of your concern."

He opens the door and closes it softly behind him, taking a deep breath to recompose himself, pasting on – almost effortlessly – a fake smile and walks back towards his classroom.

He hears a soft, choked sob from behind him, but he doesn't look back, doesn't stop and wait. He walks straight back into the classroom and sits down at his seat after offering an excuse of diarrhea to the teacher.

He sees Gouenji slip into his seat moments after he does. He notices his dark eyes are rimmed red and pain is overflowing in them.

Later during in between lessons, a small piece of paper is dropped onto his desk as he starts a fresh sketch of the snow-covered school grounds seen from the window.

_Please don't hurt yourself anymore_, it says. _It hurts me too. I care because I'm your friend._

Fubuki picks it up and puts it into his pencil case.

OoOoOoOoO

Fubuki sighs and sits back against the toilet tank.

It's recess two weeks after Gouenji found him sleeping (fainted) in the same cubicle.

Fubuki is in here with all his sketchbooks, drawing tools and all his letters from Gouenji.

By _all_, he means, _all of them._

He slowly flips through them all, looking at all those old drawings he has done throughout the years. He has picked up this hobby since after the FFI, the scenery of the beaches inspiring him to hone his artistic skills and express them in colours and shapes on paper, and sometimes, with clay and various other mediums.

Fubuki comes across the sketch of Endou, Kazemaru, Kidou and Gouenji. Such good friends they are, Fubuki smiles sadly.

He finds long-forgotten drawings of snowfields, the Hakuren school building, squirrels, birds, wolves. He remembers the simple times back in his Junior High school and his first and final year in Hakuren High, having transferred to Raimon High during the second year. He remembers Konko and the others, he remembers Atsuya's grave, and the Old Mountain Man, the nickname for the bear he meets almost invariably every trip through the snowfield to Hakuren…

Countless sketches and drawings of his beloved Gouenji…

Fubuki smiles despite the pain. _Gouenji…_ He recalls their Crossfire, their letters, their kiss, the time they had sex in Fubuki's dorm. Tears start to fall despite his smile as he remembers Gouenji moving within him, lips pressed to his, and then moving to murmur soft nothings into to his ear. He remembers the tender glow in dark brown depths. He remembers the flame striker leaving right after that, leaving behind a single, heartbreaking note.

He wonders, vaguely, why he bothered putting up with the pain until now.

"I'm sorry… Dad, Mom, Atsuya… Sorry Gouenji-kun… Shuuya…"

He is apologizing so much.

It's unbecoming of him.

.

.

.

.

.

Gouenji runs towards the boy's toilets. His indoor shoes skid on the floor, but he pays no mind, righting himself and continuing his dash to the restroom, rounding the corner and running straight ahead.

Fubuki has been missing. Again. And he is worried.

The last time Fubuki went missing during a break, he was found in the toilet twenty minutes after the bell rang, slumped over the toilet seat, wrist bleeding from nine fresh vicious self-inflicted slashes, done on top of countless previous ones.

Gouenji fears the worst. He has seen what Fubuki can do to himself.

He loves the ice striker too much to let him be.

For the umpteenth time of his life, Gouenji regrets saying yes to Toramaru. He should never have. He loved Fubuki – and still loves Fubuki. And now, after four years of pretending to love the younger boy, he doesn't have the heart to push him away… But what Gouenji doesn't understand is why Fubuki is jealous. Doesn't he like Someoka…? Gouenji regrets not realizing Fubuki is denser than he thought; he regrets giving up on Fubuki; he regrets leaving immediately after they had sex; he regrets… he regrets… he regrets… He regrets Toramaru.

Gouenji shakes his head and runs on

Finally reaching the white door, he pushes it open and rushes in, suddenly aware of how loud his footsteps are on the white, unstained tiles.

He looks beyond the sinks, beyond the urinal bowls to the farthest stall.

Its door is locked.

"Fubuki?" he calls, just like last time, feeling the horrible feeling of history repeating itself.

There is no answer.

Fear threatens to suffocate Gouenji, and he forces it down. _It's probably not Fubuki. Or maybe Fubuki's really suffering from diarrhea this time and doesn't want to be disturbed_, he convinces himself. He reaches into his pocked for a coin, which he fits into the slit of the lock outside the stall, turning it and letting himself in anyway.

Gouenji's heart stops at the sight.

Fubuki, _his Fubuki,_ deathly pale, lying in a pool of crimson. Surrounded by opened, bloodstained sketchbooks and what Gouenji recognizes as old letters from himself. His beautiful grey-blue-green eyes open but blank. His cutter is held loosely in his right hand. Both sleeves of his uniform are rolled up, only to reveal slit wrists.

"… Fubuki…!" Gouenji's voice catches and he slowly kneels to prop up Fubuki's head, momentarily disregarding the blood.

He lays a hand on a pale cheek.

Ice cold.

He waits for the rise and fall of telltale sleep.

Stillness.

He presses a hand to a thin, shirt-covered chest, looking for its pulse.

Nothing.

The scientific part of Gouenji's brain tells him, when one is alive, there is body heat, breathing, and heartbeat, and Fubuki Shirou is currently lacking in all three, and therefore dead.

But the scientist in Gouenji is taken over by his emotions and his denial. "No, Fubuki… No…" He grips on to Fubuki's limp shoulders and shakes, once, twice. "Don't scare me, Fubuki," he tells the unresponding body. "Don't hurt yourself."

The grey head lolls and gives no reply.

It is, then, the fact cuts through Gouenji's fear-fogged brain like a hot knife through butter.

Fubuki is dead.

"No… why, Fubuki… _why?" _Hot tears blur his vision and escapes from his eyes in fat, scalding droplets. His heart twists and wrenches with grief and regret in the most painful way possible as he forces himself to raise his eyes to look at the opened sketchbooks everywhere.

Drawings of Hakuren, Raimon… and Gouenji himself.

The tears fall thicker, harder.

"Fubuki…" he manages brokenly. "… _Shirou… why?"_ He carefully lifts Fubuki to prop him against the toilet, caressing the cold skin, smooth and beautiful even in death.

But that's what Fubuki is.

Fubuki is the cold; Fubuki is beauty.

Slowly, Gouenji reaches for Fubuki's left arm, where, he knows, are the fatal slashes and of countless previous self-inflicted wounds.

Standing out brightly in sharp crimson, from among the old pale, faded scars, carved deep into delicate flesh, are the words, _I love you Shuuya._

Gouenji's voice rises to a strangled scream of despair.

OoOoOoOoO

Hiroto runs down the corridor into the toilet. Gouenji and Fubuki have been missing for more than half an hour.

Did something happen to his friends? Hiroto knows he isn't a person-reader like Kidou, but he too can tell when something is wrong.

Gouenji only disappears for more than half an hour with Toramaru to make out.

Gouenji simply doesn't disappear after going out to look for Fubuki in the washroom.

Hiroto rounds the corner and rushes into the toilet, fear and worry coiling in his stomach. He races in, almost punching the door open as he did. He reaches the farthest stall, hearing faint sniffing and sobbing from there.

He peeks in and freezes in fear, grief and shock.

Fubuki lies pale and unmoving on the floor, leaning against the toilet bowl in a pool of what seems to be his own blood, surrounded by his sketchbooks.

Hiroto looks up to see Gouenji sitting beside Fubuki, tears rolling quietly down his cheeks. "_Fubuki… _Gouenji…" he whispers hoarsely.

The bowed platinum blond head jerks up and there is a clatter as a cutter Hiroto recognizes as Fubuki's fall from tanned fingers.

"… Gouenji… _what have you done to yourself?_"

The words _I love you too Fubuki _are etched into the inside of Gouenji's left arm, and in his right, were a few simple characters. _I'm sorry Fubuki._

Everything clicks for Hiroto.

Slowly, he kneels down beside Gouenji, casting a look at Fubuki's greyish eyes, dull and bleak in death, frozen forever with pain, sadness and what the ice striker thought to be unrequited love.

Hiroto cries with Gouenji.

He has lost a good friend today.

But then, Gouenji has lost the one he truly loves.

End

**A/N: This is the longest oneshot I've ever written. Wow. And so much angst in eight thousand or so words. Whoot. Please review and tell me how I can improve. Thank you for reading.**


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